


The Nicest Word

by rileywrites



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1880s, Alternate Universe - Western, Developing Relationship, Historical Inaccuracy, Multi, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7629700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rileywrites/pseuds/rileywrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Widower Chris Argent rides into Beacon, South Dakota with one goal: Find a place to make enough money to last the winter. He ends up finding a place to put down roots for the first time in years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nicest Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ssleif](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssleif/gifts).



> Written for the prompts "western au" and "stable couple pursuing a third," with a dash of "cooking/remodeling." 
> 
> Many thanks to @spookybibi for the fast beta job.

_“Home is the nicest word there is.”_

Laura Ingalls Wilder

…

Chris rides into Beacon, South Dakota in Early July, just in time for harvest. He hopes to find a place as a hired hand, if only to get him enough to last the winter before he heads back toward New York.

He’s hungry, exhausted, and ready to put down roots for a while. According to some of the others doing seasonal work, Beacon will be a good place to do it.

There are several horses tied in front of the only saloon in town, and Chris adds Mars to the lineup quickly.

"You enjoy some water, and I'll find us a place to stay for the night," he promises his weary horse. "You'll get the love you deserve, don't worry. I just need to eat something before I fall over."

Mars doesn’t look convinced, but Chris doesn’t have time to argue with a him.

The saloon is cleaner than any he's been in so far, and Chris has been in dozens. He takes a seat at the wide oaken bar and sets his bag at his feet. The barkeep comes over almost immediately.

"Welcome to Beacon." The man has an enigmatic smile. "I'm Doc Deaton, town vet and proprietor here. What can I get you?"

"Whiskey, something to eat, and information."

"I can give you all three, but that last one costs extra." The man smiles as he pours the liquor. "Special tonight is Marin's beef stew, and the only other option is chicken pot pie."

"The stew, please. And lots of it. “

Chris looks around the room as Deaton takes his order back to the kitchen. The saloon is pretty full, but not uncomfortably so. Most of the people seem to be farmers enjoying the fruits of their labor, spending money they made after the latest shipment went East. One in particular catches his eye, a tall, broad man with blue eyes.

Chris is no idiot, though, and he keeps his glance brief.

Soon enough, Deaton is back with a bowl of stew for him.

“Now, about the information. What brings you to Beacon? You sound like you’re from the north somewhere, but I can’t place your accent.”

“Canada. PEI, originally. My wife and I moved to New York when my daughter was born.” Chris frowns. “Now it’s just me, but the accent sticks. I’m looking for work, for a place that needs a hired hand and is willing to offer board for the duration.”

“Most places have hired on any traveling workers they want, but I think I might have a place that could use you.” Deaton looks at him. “Are you willing to work hard, and are you trustworthy?”

“I have a letter from my last position to prove both,” Chris says. “Since the answer is apparently not obvious.”

Deaton doesn’t even blink. “You’re a widower with nothing but a satchel and a horse. It doesn’t scream hard working or trustworthy from the start, no.”

“Trust me, I can be trusted.” Chris is aware of the irony. “Who do you have in mind?”

Deaton looks across the room. “Stilinski! Are you still looking for another hired hand this season?”

Blue eyes stands and crosses to the bar.

“I am. My last one fell through, and Melissa can’t pitch in with the harvest since Della went mad and threw her.” Stilinski shakes his head. “Her ankle, you know.”

“I know, I set it. Dr. Martin wasn’t available at the time.” Deaton nods to Chris. “This man is looking for work, room and board. See if he’ll do the trick.”

Stilinski looks him over and extends a hand. Chris shakes it, trying to ignore the flicker of interest he thinks he sees.

“Stilinski.”

“Argent.”

“My farm is Lone Pine, out there on the East side of town, and we’ve got two people on already. But my sons have gone west, and I need all the help I can get. You work hard?”

“Yes sir.”

“You willing to help around the house if we need it? The other two are less than amenable to housework.”

“I’ll work where you need me. My wife taught me well, and I can do laundry with the best of them.”

That earns Chris a smile, the wrinkles in Stilinski’s face deepening beautifully.

“Well, come with me back to the farm, and I’ll introduce you to my wife. She’s the one who really makes the decisions.”

There’s something about this man that makes Chris feel at ease. Then again, he hasn’t met Stilinski’s wife yet.

…

Mrs. Stilinski is a handsome woman with dark brown hair pulled into a neat braid, a strong, fine jaw, and hands that manage to be delicate while covered in the evidence of her hard work. Her dress is a simple gingham that Victoria would have scorned, but it might as well be the latest Parisian fashion for how beautiful it is on Mrs. Stilinski.

(Chris is fucked, staying with two comely people who happen to be married.)

“Mr. Argent, I understand you wish to join us here at Lone Pine. Are you willing to put in the work needed to get in the harvest?”

“Yas’m.” Chris folds his hat over and again, her brown eyes peering into his soul.

“And are you okay with an attic room? The others are in my boy’s room, and there isn’t much more room.”

“Yas’m. I don’t need much, just a roof over my head and a place to keep my horse.”

“I think we can handle both requests, Mr. Argent.” Mrs. Stilinski stares at him for some time longer, a calculating look on her face. “And my husband says you can help keep house?”

“My wife was sick for a long time, Mrs. Stilinski. I learned how to keep house so I could take care of her and my daughter. I can mend, launder, cook, anything you need of me.”

Mrs. Stilinski smiles, and it’s like looking into the sun. “Well then, Mr. Argent, welcome to Lone Pine. John, if you could show Mr. Argent to his room, I’ll have Matt take his horse to the stable.”

“I can take him myself, ma’am. I prefer to care for him.”

Mrs. Stilinski’s gaze is hard to decipher. “Okay then, the horse can stay in the yard for a while longer. There’s plenty of water for him.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Chris picks up his bag and makes to follow Stilinski inside.

“No boots in my kitchen,” Mrs. Stilinski warns, shaking her dishtowel at them. “You know I won’t have you muddying up my clean floors, John. You just refinished them last week.”

“Yes, dear.” Stilinski steals a kiss on his way past, and Chris is baffled by the ease they show around company. “Come along, Argent, the back stairs are through here.”

Chris follows him through the large main area, down a small hallway to a set of stairs right before the back door.

“I’d like to add a second story someday, but for now it’s just attic space. We had the boys stay up here while we had guests back before they got married, so it can’t be too uncomfortable.” Stilinski pushes a door open at the top and leads Chris up into the attic.

There isn’t much in the small space: a mattress of sorts on a low wooden pallet, a washstand, an ancient chair, and a couple of chests.

“If you move the bowl, the washstand doubles as a desk if you need it,” Stilinski offers. “Will this suit?”

“It will.” Chris drops his bag on the floor by the chair. “I’ll need bedding, but this will suit me fine.”

“I’ll ask Melissa about the bedding. For now, come on down and tend to that horse of yours. He’s too beautiful not to care for properly.”

…

Life at the Lone Pine falls into an easy pattern after the first few days.

Wake up before dawn, tend to the animals, eat breakfast prepared by Melissa, head to the fields with lunch in pails, come home in the evening for dinner, an hour or two by lamplight talking, telling stories, playing cards, and mending the latest rips and tears.

The other two men, Matt Daehler and Lawrence Greenberg, mock him at first for his knowledge of needlework. Then, Melissa (a liberty he only takes in his mind) threatens not to mend their clothing until they apologize to Chris. It doesn’t take too many pairs of ruined socks before they apologize properly.

The wheat harvest is difficult, but not impossible, and Melissa’s garden takes up what little time they have leftover at the end of any given day. She’s a sweet mistress to work under, ruling with a firm hand and a kind heart.

John is a good man, a strong man, who is devoted utterly to his wife. (His second, Chris finds out, the first having died when their son was young. Her likeness is on the mantelpiece of a house she never lived in.)

Chris hoped that, upon living with them, his infatuation for his employers would fade. The two are too good for that, unfortunately.

…

One night toward the end of July, John is called in to town on business, and Daehler and Greenberg head in for pleasure, leaving Chris and Melissa at the Lone Pine on their own.

“I hope you don’t mind staying behind,” Melissa says, rocking slowly as she knits. “Since the accident and the boys moving, I don’t like being alone in the house overnight.”

“I understand, Mrs. Stilinski.”

Melissa bites her lip, drawing Chris’ attention.

“Call me Melissa, Mr. Argent. If only when it’s just us, or us and my husband.” She smiles softly, and Chris could never tell her no.

“Then I must be Chris, and not Mr. Argent.”

“Agreed.”

They work in silence for a while, before Melissa looks up at him again.

“What happened to your wife and daughter? I know they passed, but I don’t know the reason.” She ducks her head under the pretense of counting stitches. “That is, if it isn’t intruding.”

Chris wants to be honest. “Tuberculosis took my Victoria, and my Allison was soon to follow with some kind of fever. The doctors couldn’t tell me what it was. I sold the house to pay the bills, gave some of the furniture to my niece, packed the few things worth keeping and headed west. I’ve been hopping from farm to farm for about three years now.”

“Well, I hope you’ve found a place here, because I think John wants to keep you on over the winter.” Melissa glances up at him. “The others don’t fit our home properly, but you do. And with my ankle, and the animals, we need the help.”

“I’d like to stay, if you’ll have me.”

Melissa smiles, warm and welcoming and— home, his mind whispers.

“Good. We will.”

…

“So, I need some help.” John stops brushing Anna long enough to look at Chris. “Melissa’s birthday is in a couple of weeks, and I don’t know how to celebrate properly.”

Chris thinks it over. “I can teach you how to make a cake? And she wants fabric for a new dress this fall. That gray one is falling apart almost beyond repair.”

“You’re a genius, man. I forgot about the dress, thank you.” John keeps brushing. “Want to go in on it, call it a present from both of us? It will make her happier that way.”

Chris isn’t so sure, but he agrees anyway. Daehler and Greenberg finish up the milking and carry it into the house, leaving him and John to wrap up with the horses.

“Mel mentioned you staying on over the winter, right? We had talked about it, but I never had time to mention it.” John passes Chris the currycomb. “It would mean a lot to have you here past the harvest.”

If Chris couldn’t say no to Melissa’s eyes, he definitely can’t say no to John’s.

“I said I’ll stay over, yes. This has been the best place to work in the three years I’ve been traveling, and I’m not eager to give it up.”

“Good, so we’re keeping you.” John grins, and Chris’ stomach turns. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in weeks.”

“Don’t exaggerate. It’s too sarcastic.” Chris steps out of Mars’ stall to hang up the comb, and John catches his wrist.

“It wasn’t sarcastic, Chris. We enjoy your company.”

(Chris’ wrist is on fire, his face is on fire, but he’s a grown man with control over his actions. He doesn’t feel like being shot, so he doesn’t turn to pull John in for a kiss.)

“I enjoy yours as well.” Chris tugs his arm away and keeps walking.

_Get your shit together, man._

…

Melissa’s birthday is right after the end of the harvest, so they have plenty of money to buy the new fabric.

“Does she want gray to replace the old one?” John looks baffled at the options in the dry goods store. Chris can’t imagine his face in some of the stores Victoria frequented back east.

“All I know is that she needs a new winter dress.” Chris keeps coming back to a deep red wool, feeling how soft it is under his hands. “She deserves better than the homespun she makes your shirts out of.”

“I like her homespun, but it isn’t exactly fashionable.” John comes around the counter to see what he’s looking at. “That’s a nice color. Right?”

“I think so.” Chris can imagine Melissa in it. “It’s the same color as that headscarf she has, remember?”

“I’ll be damned, it is.” John claps a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take it. Pick out some of the bits and bobs she’ll need to finish it, and we’ll pay.”

Chris can feel the salesgirl’s eyes on him, but she’s smiling. He asks her how much fabric they would need, and what else she might like.

“We have some beautiful black buttons in.” The girl measures out their yardage. “I think it’s nice you gentlemen want to take care of Mrs. Stilinski like this.”

She leans over and whispers, “And I know for a fact she’s been eyeing the combs in the case for a while now. There’s a black one that will go well with everything.”

“We’ll take it, thank you.” John comes over to join them, resting his hand on Chris’ shoulder again. “She’ll have everything she needs after this, right?”

“As long as she has the pattern she wants.” The girl grins. “I can only hope to find a husband as thoughtful as you, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Now, Caitlin, I’m sure you’ll find someone suitable. You’re a nice, accomplished girl.”

“We’re flat out of eligible bachelors, you know. I guess I’ll have to wait for planting next year.” She rings them up, and Chris winces at the price.

John pays without questioning it, waving away Chris’ protestations.

“You can pay me back when we get back to the house. No need to change money here.” John looks at everything. “Caitlin, could you wrap this up for us? Something pretty-looking?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Stilinski.”

…

“Melissa just throws things together, and they taste great.”

“Melissa has also been cooking since she was small and has a hand for it.  _We_  need to follow the recipe.” Chris re-measures the flour John tried to toss in. “Otherwise, her birthday cake will be a brick.”

They’re still bickering when Melissa comes in from town, but at least they’ve gotten the damn thing into the oven.

“Oh, boys, you’ve made a mess of my kitchen.” Melissa grins, eyes twinkling. “I’ll go read, and you two get to clean it up. Can you manage supper? Or am I on my own?”

“I’ve already got supper started,” John says. “It’s soup, since I’m no good at anything else. Chris wanted to get complicated, but he already took lead on the cake.”

Melissa kisses John’s cheek. “You are too good to me.” She turns to Chris, hesitates for the barest second, and leans up to kiss his floury cheek. “You too. Thank you.”

They manage to get supper on the table in a timely fashion, the cake cooling on the counter so Chris can ice it properly.

“This looks good, boys, thank you.” 

Supper passes quickly in a flurry of nerves and excitement. Both men have been trying to keep from spoiling the surprise for so long it’s getting painful.

“Okay, what is it? Both of you are about to jump out of your seats.”

John retrieves the gift from the closet in the spare bedroom, placing it in her lap and kissing the top of her head.

“It’s from the both of us. Chris picked it out, since I’m rubbish with things like taste and fashion.” 

Melissa opens the parcel slowly, careful to save the outer wrappings to use later. She lights up when she sees what Caitlin tucked inside.

“Oh! Oh,  _boys_ , this is beautiful.” She pulls out the buttons and the comb, holding them to the light so she can see them better. “I’ve been wanting one of these combs since they got them into the store.”

“Caitlin tipped us off on that one,” Chris admits.

She hands him the smaller things so she can look at the fabric.

“This is beautiful,” she whispers. She runs her hands over it reverently. “Almost too beautiful to wear. I love it, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Chris says, twirling the comb so he has something to do with his hands.

“You’ve been needing a new winter dress, and it was Chris’ idea to get you what you needed to make a pretty one. Caitlin says the fabric will last you a while, as well.”

“I love it.” Melissa pulls John down for a kiss, and Chris averts his eyes.

“Happy birthday, my love.”

(Chris is not  _jealous._  He’s envious. There is a difference.)

…

The woodshed roof caves in about mid-September.

The shed has to be repaired quickly, since the snow has been unpredictable over the past few years. At least, that’s what John tells him.

They haul away the broken lumber, chopping up what they can to reuse or use for firewood. Melissa brings them root beer when they’re on breaks, lingers longer to watch them work. 

“Chris, can you hold that end still for me? I’m struggling to get this slope right.” John is sitting on a beam, attempting to affix the first few boards to the barn-side of the shed.

Chris does, careful not to lean too far from the ladder. “Careful, John, no woodshed is worth you getting hurt.”

“I’m so glad you care.”

“Besides, Melissa would kill me if you got hurt on my watch.” Chris smiles.

“As the same is true for you, we’d better be careful.”

(Melissa lingers longer once they strip off their shirts. Chris marks it down as wifely affection for her extremely handsome husband.)

…

It all comes to a head in late October.

Chris had gotten comfortable, gotten used to being part of their little family, to feeling like he was actually  _with_ them as someone other than a hired hand.

Then, Melissa gets sick. John drops everything to take care of her, leaving everything outside for Chris to manage. Gone are moments joking in the barn, gone are the sideways glances and hands on shoulders that Chris thought meant something.

Gone is his time alone with Melissa, as well.

Chris takes care of the animals, cares for Melissa’s winter garden, and goes to sleep in the attic room. He spends as little time as possible in the main part of the house listening to Melissa cough.

Melissa has been sick for two weeks when John corners Chris in the barn.

“Why the hell haven’t you been paying attention to her? She misses you, dammit, and so do I.”

“I didn’t want to get in the way,” Chris protests. “She needs your attention.”

“I can share my bloody attention, Chris. Goddamnit, man, don’t you see what leaving her is doing? She hasn’t been sleeping, and when she does she wakes asking for you.”

Chris shakes in his boots, fearful of imminent castration. He would deserve it, though he never acted on his intentions.

“Get your ass in that house and apologize to her, you bastard.” John shoves him toward the house. “Go, before I carry you bodily.”

Chris goes, hat in hand, pulling off his boots before he crosses into their bedroom.

Melissa is pale, shaky, but she looks better than she did at the beginning of her illness.

“Christopher. Did John threaten you? You don’t have to be here if you don’t want my company.” She coughs, and it hurts Chris to hear. “I was beginning to think you didn’t care for us as I thought you did.”

“What?” Chris sits beside her bed, and she takes his hand. 

“Never mind, Chris. Just read to me, please. My head is spinning, and the words won’t stand still.”

…

Thank the lord, Melissa’s body fights off the illness, and she regains most of her strength over the next few weeks.

(Chris doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost another beloved woman in his life to illness. Something rash, he knows that much.)

“Chris, dear, could you get me some potatoes from the root cellar? I don’t like taking those stairs in the winter. I don’t trust my ankle.” 

“Yas’m.” Chris heads down carefully, taking his time in gathering the potatoes she asked for. He straightens things up while he’s there, leaving the cellar neater than when he arrived.

John and Melissa are talking in the kitchen when he comes back inside.

“…just don’t want to scare him off. We aren’t exactly normal.”

“He’s just scared. I know he feels it too.” Melissa sighs. “I want so much, John. I don’t know how to ask for it.”

Chris drops the basket of potatoes, startling them.

“You may not have to ask,” John says quietly. Louder, he says, “Chris, come in here a minute.”

“You mean I’m not imagining it?” Chris goes straight to them, potatoes abandoned on the floor. “I thought—”

“Oh, sweetheart, we should have said something sooner.” Melissa cups his cheek in her hand. “We do want you, if you’ll have us.”

Chris looks over at John. He’s watching with a warm smile, a hand on Melissa’s back.

“Both of us,” John clarifies. “Unless we were wrong about your… proclivities.”

“No, I— I care for you both.”

Melissa pulls him down and kisses him sweetly. Chris gasps like a drowning man.

“Good. Because we care for you as well.” She tugs John in closer. “Kiss him, love. He’s just as lovely as we imagine.”

John closes the gap, and Chris melts into the kiss. Nothing matters, not work or town or fucking potatoes. Just this, just now.

Chris moves a hand to Melissa’s trim waist, to the softness of the wool they bought her.

“Since the dress?” he asks, moving from John’s mouth to Melissa’s.

“Since we asked you to stay,” John corrects softly. “Then Mel got sick, and…”

“We’re together now,” Melissa cuts him off. “All three of us, yes?”

“Yes.” Chris smiles, his eyes dewy. “All three of us.”

...

It’s late when Chris gets back to the Lone Pine. The whole farm is asleep, darkness filling the area outside of Chris’ lantern.

It’s late enough that he considers sleeping in the barn with Mars and coming inside in the morning.

Melissa would kill him.

He sneaks in as quietly as possible, leaving his boots at the door and hanging his coat on the still-empty peg on the wall. The house hasn’t changed. He didn’t realize that he thought it would have.

The fire is low. Chris takes a moment to add fuel, to bring it back to life. If he’s going to sleep on the floor in front of it, it may as well be warm.

There’s a quiet huff behind him.

“Christopher, what are you doing out here?”

Chris turns.

Melissa is standing in the doorway to the bedroom. Her hair is down, a curly black-brown cloud around her face and down over her shoulders. She’s wearing nothing but her shift, and Chris averts his eyes quickly to avoid disrespect.

(He's seen her naked, but that was with permission and intent.)

“Chris, love, look at me.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Chris looks back up. She looks like an angel come to earth, glowing in the soft firelight.

“Come to bed, yes? We missed you.” Melissa holds out her hand.

There is a rustle in the bedroom, and John calls from the darkness, “Is he home, Mel?”

“He is,” Melissa calls back. “He’s home.”

Chris takes her hand.

He’s home.

 

 

 


End file.
